


Cafe Rojo vs Cafe Bleu

by gooberAscendant, Kalliopestarmist (KalliopeStarmist)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooberAscendant/pseuds/gooberAscendant, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KalliopeStarmist/pseuds/Kalliopestarmist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One street. Two coffee shops. Seven baristas. Fifty- er, sorry, forty-nine consulting firm employees. And whole lot of latte.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to GooberAscendant for writing the opening scene. And also for the plot.

“Hey, Caboose.” Tucker leaned against the counter, idly twirling a massive keyring with a single key on it.

“What?” Caboose continued to stare at the door, poised and ready for a customer to enter.

“You ever wonder why we’re here?”

“Sometimes, I think about life, and I think maybe we have to choose for ourselves why we exist.” Caboose gazed into the dark street, illuminated only by the light shining from the windows, and the neon blue open sign that hung beside the door. “But then I think about how we are so big compared to small things, and so small compared to big things, and then I think about something else so that I do not get scared.”

“What?” Tucker stowed the keyring in his pocket. “I mean why are we working tonight? It’s late. I could be at a club picking up chicks, but instead I’m here, like always, talking to you.”

“Oh.” Caboose squinted. He could see a faint red light across the street. “Well. We are still open because they are still open. Church says we need to steal their customers.”

“What customers?” Tucker pushed himself away from the counter, gesturing emphatically at the empty room. “The only dude who’s been in here tonight was obviously that new guy from across the street. If we’re only open because they are, and based on the dumbass spy they sent over here, they’re only open because we are, then do you see the fucking problem here?”

“Yes.” Caboose leaned forward so that he could make out the word open, the source of the red glow. “I can see the problem right now. It is red. Red is bad.”

“I fucking hate you, dude.”

* * *

 

The source of the red light across the street was a coffee shop identical to the one Tucker and Caboose were manning, except in two respects. 

  1. The décor had a red tint to it.
  2. The phone was ringing.



Dick Simmons, Sales Associate, straightened up after the third ring and leaned against his mop. He turned back to the counter, where his coworker was ignoring the blaring phone six inches from his hand in favor of carefully lowering a single dollar bill into a to-go cup marked “tips!”

“Grif? Are you going to answer that?”

“Eh, wasn’t planning on it.”

“Because you’re right next to the phone,” Simmons pointed out helpfully.

“I’m seeding the tip jar, Simmons! I need to concentrate or the tips won’t grow.”

“If you want more tips, you might try actually doing your job.”

The ringing died abruptly.

“See? The problem took care of itself,” Grif said.

“No, it didn’t!”  Simmons yelped, “Grif, what if that was a customer?”

Grif sighed and gestured at the empty coffee shop. “Then they would want to know if we were open, and if we said yes, they would come in here, and then I would have to make them coffee.”

“But what if they end up going to Café Bleu instead?”

“Then the Blues will have to stay open making coffee for some loser,” Grif snickered, “hehe. Suck it, Blues.”

“And,” Simmons explained patiently,“they’ll get that loser’s money.”

“Who gives a shit? I’m making ten bucks an hour either way.”

Before Simmons could explain why he was being paid ten bucks an hour, the phone started ringing again. Grif pointedly raised his dollar, folded it carefully, and lowered it back towards the cup.

“Grif?” Simmons asked expectantly after a ring.

“Whatever, it’s just Sarge anyway.”

With a heavy, pointed sigh, which Grif ignored, Simmons squeezed himself between Grif and the drip coffee carafes and picked up the phone, “Hello, Café Rojo, best coffee on Blood Gulch Avenue. This is Simmons, how can I help you?”

_“Simmons?”_

“Is it Sarge?” Grif asked. “I knew it was Sarge. It’s always Sarge.”

“Shut up, Grif,” Simmons hissed before standing at full attention, as though their stupid Alabama-accented manager could see them from the comfort of somewhere-not-the-coffee-shop.

“I knew it was Sarge,” Grif muttered to himself.

_“Simmons, I need a report on the Blue shop.”_

“Um, they’re still open, sir. We sent Donut over like you said, and he said that they’re empty."

_“Good work, Simmons. You and Donut go ahead and give yourselves a perk star.”_

“Yessir, thank you sir.”

“Hey, kiss-ass, ask him if we can leave already,” Grif called over his shoulder.

“ _Is that Grif?”_ Sarge barked. _“Simmons, are there any customers?”_

“Uh, no, sir.”

_“Great, put me on speakerphone.”_

“Yes, Sir!” Simmons said, saluting absolutely fucking no one in the empty shop.

“ _Shut up, Grif,_ ” Sarge snapped.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Grif was always quick to point out, when Simmons inevitably rebuked him, that it was not laziness that kept him from showing up to his shifts on time. It was concern over his _work-life balance._ That was legit, the New York Times had articles about that all the time. Grif had even read a few of them when his break was going by a little too quickly. Well, skimmed a few of them, let’s not go crazy here. New York Times articles were like, two whole columns sometimes. Sure, management had voiced some concerns, but Grif found that listening to management was not an optimal use of his time.

So it didn’t concern him much to see that Donut and Simmons were already crowded around the back counter near the toaster when he finally snuck into the store. It was a little weird that they were lined up in front of Sarge, facing away from the register… and come to think of it, pretty weird that Sarge was in the prep area and the front doors were still locked. And Grif was positive he had never seen the tall chrome cylinder his certifiable manager was standing proudly in front of, but hey, they weren’t paying him enough to be curious. Whatever the thing was, the rest of the staff seemed to have it under control, so, he swiped a bagel out of the ‘day old’ bin before tying on his orange “Café Rojo” apron.

“GRRRRRRIF!!” The earsplitting warcry of a cantankerous supervisor bellowed out from behind the gaggle of earnest employees. Grif had been spotted. “Report! For! Duty!”

Sarge had done some military service, the nature of which had never been made clear to his employees. It had also apparently never been made clear to Sarge that his military career was over. He still kept his silvery hair in a regulation buzz cut, yelled with the gusto and demeanor of an army lieutenant at a boot camp, and sometimes ordered his baristas to drop and give him twenty. He was quite literally Grif’s personalized nightmare of a supervisor, but, credit where credit was due, Simmons had gained a lot of muscle tone since starting on at Rojo.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Grif mumbled through a mouthful of stale bagel. He grabbed a paper cup from the stack and meandered slowly over to the drip carafe to pour himself a cup. The trick to dealing with Sarge first thing in the morning was to make your priorities clear and also make sure your priorities didn’t involve him. And if anyone knew how to deal with Sarge, it was Grif. He had been elected _Worst Employee of the Month_ since Sarge had instituted the award. “Sup?”

Simmons heaved his customary exasperated sigh before Sarge pushed past him, knocking him into Donut.  Their boss rounded the counter out of the prep area, his combat boots thunking against the linoleum in a slow, heavy rhythm that made Grif’s calves hurt just to hear. Who wears regulation combat boots to a café, anyway? Hell, even Simmons just wore sneakers.

Grif paused instead of reaching for the sugar, waiting as Sarge stalked up to him until they were nose to nose. They stared at each other for a moment, Grif lackadaisily passive, Sarge flushed and livid, and then the Rojo manager resolutely knocked the half-full cup to the ground.

Grif took another lazy, unconcerned bite of his breakfast as Sarge’s eyes narrowed in disgust. “So help me God,” he ground out, each word rumbling from a special place of hatred for Grif deep within his chest, “if you don’t git your ass over to the prep area on the double, I’m orderin’ Simmons to poison the day olds!”

“Oh, I’d do it, too,” Simmons piped up from behind the counter.

“Good man,” Sarge looked away from the confrontation to give Simmons a curt nod that would probably keep Grif’s nerd coworker in masturbation material for a week. “Now! Front and center!!”

Grif rolled his eyes as Sarge stalked back to the new machine, then caught Simmons’ gaze and rolled his eyes again, just to let him know that his Daddy Complex was sad-funny now, and not even real-funny anymore.

“As I was sayin’ before we were so rudely interrupted by Grif’s unending onslaught of insubordination,” Sarge slapped the metal cylinder proudly, taking a moment to revel in his two favorite things;  machinery and implying that Grif had just ruined something, “This here is the newest addition to the Rojo arsenal! Corporate sent it this mornin’, and it’s the edge we need to finally drive those pesky Blues out of business once and for all!”

“Awesome! We’re going to get so many Perk Stars!” Donut exclaimed, and Grif stared at him in disbelief. The new guy was great when they needed someone to check up on Bleu or inventory the cup sleeves or empty the garbage, but god, was this kid for real? Like, seriously.

“Don’t get too excited, dude.” Grif said. “He said the same thing about the blender.”

“Frappes were the wave of the future!” Sarge growled at the reminder of that particularly bitter defeat. He raised a clenched fist dramatically, staring out at a point past Grif’s head, towards the blue awning across the street where veterans of Café Rojo knew a poster for Strawberry Matcha Frappes was hanging, forever taunting their leader. “And it would have worked, if not for those dirty spying blue bastards.”

“Still,” Donut continued to be unphased by either Grif’s wealth of experience or Sarge’s obvious lack of stability, “this thing looks like a doozy. I can’t wait to beat off all those Blue guys with it!”

Sarge, Grif, and Simmons put aside their separate thoughts to exchange a Look and an awkward pause that Donut didn’t participate in. That was the other thing about Donut. His way with words.

“Uh, Donut…,” Simmons coughed politely.

“Nothing says ‘Victory’ like a big, powerful gadget in your pocket,” Donut said with a satisfied nod at the cylinder that left the others staring helplessly at him. “Yessiree-”

“Sarge-why-don’t-you-tell-us-what-this-thing-does?” Simmons suggested quickly, his voice reaching up an octave and cracking in his rush to fill the silence before Donut could finish his next thought.

“Uh….” Sarge blinked, dazed, at Donut a few times before he registered Simmons’ suggestion. “Right! This beauty is the Warthog 360, an industrial capacity all-purpose espresso and coffee grinder.”

Simmons applauded politely as Sarge patted the Warthog, but he was the only one. Donut still looked a little giddy, but he had his head cocked to the side and a slightly worried expression, and it was possible that giddy was just Donut’s default.

“Warthog?” Grif had no such default and was flat-out confused. “Why is it called a Warthog?”

“Because it tears up beans fast and efficient, like a rampagin’ warthog,” Sarge answered, clicking his heels together like he was explaining this incredible cognitive leap to an impressed general, instead of three slouching men in coffee-stained aprons.

“Yeah, but…” Grif scratched his head, leaving a trail of white bagel crumbs through his greasy brown hair. “Like, why a _warthog_? They’re not very appetizing. I mean, I don’t hear warthog and think delicious steaming pot of coffee.”

“Es-press-oh, Grif,” Sarge corrected him. “The Warthog’s gonna get us brewing es- _press_ -oh. Like a legitimate operation!”

“Well, I don’t think of warthogs and espresso, either. Am I missing something?”

“ _Simmons_ ,” Donut leaned around Grif to whisper in a very loud, theatrical way, because apparently New Guy wasn’t clear on how whispering worked. “ _Hey, Simmons._ ”

“What is it, Donut?”

“Is espresso different from coffee? I thought it was just Italian?”

Simmons rubbed his hands together and Grif had the sinking sense of dread that this new machine was going to awaken one of Simmons’ ridiculous hobbies. “Oh, Donut,” he said with relish, “you have no idea.”

Sarge nodded approvingly at Simmons, which was never a good omen even when Kiss-Ass wasn’t already glowing with dorky zeal. “Simmons, get together a presentation on the nuances of espresso brewin’ for the other men. I want you all to be experts by the end of the week. And that includes you, Grif!”

Grif might have let the machine’s name go, but if the alternative was to let Simmons teach him a new skill… “Just, why can’t we call it something sexy, like… the Puma 360?”

“The _what_?” Sarge’s lip curled in either disgust or confusion.

“The puma,” Grif repeated. Sarge’s lip showed no sign of uncurling, so he added a helpful, “Like… the cat.”

Simmons shook his head, “I think that’s already a registered trademark? The shoes?”

“Oh, damn, you’re right,” Grif took another thoughtful bite of bagel and ruminated on animals that really went well with espresso. “Well, puma, leopard, lynx, whatever. There are a lot of cats out there is all I’m saying.”

“What the Sam Hell is a puma?” Sarge asked.

 

* * *

 

“Rojo got some sort of special delivery this morning,” was exactly the phrase that Tucker wanted to be greeted with every morning. Not “Good morning, Tucker, how was your evening?” Not “Hello, Tucker, you’re looking sharp today.” Not “Tucker, Caboose was in a horrific car accident and he won’t be covering evening shifts with you anymore.” Nope. What Tucker really wanted to hear first thing when he arrived for his shift was Church updating him on what sad excuse for drama he’d seen from his loft apartment window that morning.

But then, Church was a verified asshole. Maybe that was the same as saying ‘Good morning, Tucker, it is a delight to see you, as always,’ in Asshole.

Tucker doubted it. “As enthralling as you stalking the neighbors is, Church, I really need at least one cup of coffee before I hear about your latest Peeping Tom escapades.”

Church tailed him to the carafe, protesting defensively the whole way. “It’s not stalking, it’s scouting the competition! It’s why we’re here! And we pay for that coffee, you know. It comes out of our overhead. It _isn’t_ free.”

Tucker poured an indiscriminate amount of cream into his coffee and plucked a swizzle stick out of the stack. Church had it in his head that he was responsible for Café Bleu’s revenue, and what sort of friend would Tucker be if he didn’t try to snap him out of it? He stirred his coffee and then pointed the little red straw at his coworker like an accusatory finger. “Dude, you have _got_ to get your Netflix bill paid. You are driving me up a fucking wall with this Rear Window bullshit.”

“Ugh, whatever, just… get to work. I have to figure out what Rojo is up to.”

Satisfied that everybody in the shop was annoyed with everybody else in the shop, Tucker spun back to the register, sloshing some of his morning coffee onto the counter in the process. “You’re up.” He pointed the swizzle stick at the next customer, who leaned back to keep him from splashing her Lululemons. “What’ll it be?”

She slipped her phone back in her bag, twisting her mouth into something halfway between a pout and a frown. “Do you mind watching your language? People could bring children in here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Tucker tossed the swizzle stick back in his coffee. “What beverage would you like to order today, madame?”

The customer narrowed her eyes. “I think I’d like to speak to your manager.”

“Hmm. See, here’s the thing. We don’t really ‘do’ managers,” Tucker explained, air quoting for extra apathy points. “So, do you need a minute to decide, or can we keep this line moving?”

“I have been standing here for six minutes while you people ignore me to have an obscene conversation-”

“Fuck this,” Church, who without Tucker to yell at, had gone back to glaring at the red sign across the street. Someone exerting effort, i.e. not Tucker, might have been able to make out a man in a maroon apron wrestling a cardboard box to the curb. “I’m calling for backup.”

“Church here is kinda a manager,” Tucker offered as the woman flushed to the roots of her too-tight ponytail. “Do you want to try talking to him?”

“I’m going to the store across the street,” she declared.

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Tucker muttered as she huffed out the door. He took another swig of his coffee and tipped the cup vaguely in the direction of the next person in line. “Yo, neckbeard. Yeah, you. You’re up. Whaddya want?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> October 7th is National Frappe Day! Be sure to grab a frappe and make Sarge proud!


End file.
